


Dancer's Delight

by ghostlygrape



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Ballet AU, F/M, and eat a lot of cheese, i don't know how to advance plot without food sorry, they drink a lot of wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 09:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7216270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlygrape/pseuds/ghostlygrape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Paris Opera Ballet is putting on an original production: The Miraculous Ladybug. Things are exactly how you’d expect them to be when the lead dancers are cast in secret and rehearsals burn the midnight oil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“As you all know, this season we will be opening with an original production– _The Miraculous Ladybug_ , written and choreographed by our very own director, Mr. Agreste.” Miss Bustier paused for the class to applaud. “As such, many of you will be moving out of this class to accommodate rehearsals, so please make sure to pick up your new schedules before you leave today. Any questions?” **  
**

From the back, someone yelled, “who got the lead?”

“You will find out when you get to rehearsal,” Miss Bustier said as she folded her arms across her chest. A wave of murmurs washed over the class. “If that is all, we’re done for today. Good luck!”

Marinette barely escaped being crushed by the crowd rushing for the door. She gripped the barre for dear life, waiting for the room to empty so she could grab her bag lying against the far wall. Alya was waiting for her as she exited the studio.

“Have you gotten your schedule yet?”

Marinette waved her away. “I literally just got out of class. Let me put on some proper shoes, then we can go get our schedules t _ogether_.” Alya smiled, appeased. They trotted down the stairs and through the gilded corridors, chatting about the new season and fresh faces–new graduates from the ballet school–they had seen in class. Having graduated together only a few years before themselves, Alya was dancing as _coryphée_ , while Marinette–with her long legs and lithe fingers–had moved up to _sujet_.

They had been dancing in the _corps de ballet_ together since graduating from the school, but when the opportunity arose for them to vie for a spot higher up on the ladder, they jumped at the chance. What they hadn’t imagined was that they would be separated; Marinette’s legs could extend just a fraction more, her leap was just a fraction higher. But in such a cutthroat company, a fraction was all it took to vault her from demi-soloist to soloist. Alya wasn’t bitter as much as she missed being in the same classes with her best friend. Classes were no place to chat, but she had known Marinette for long enough that they could communicate through eye contact alone. Now that Marinette was gone, Alya felt that time just dragged on.

“I bet Mr. Agreste wrote some really wicked moves for you,” Alya said, elbowing Marinette in the ribs when she failed to giggle. “Wicked here meaning both awesome to watch and awful to dance.” They stopped at the end of the corridor, barred by the crowd that was swarming around the administrative offices. Alya grabbed Marinette’s wrist and pushed her way through the new dancers waving their schedules above their heads.

“Pardon us, _mon cygne_ , but we really must get through,” Alya said as she lovingly shoved the dancers aside. Reaching the office, she called her own name and Marinette’s, and received two sheets stuffed into her outstretched palm. “Thank you!” Alya yelled over her shoulder, and pushed Marinette back out of the growing ruckus.

“You’d think they had never seen paper before with the racket they’re making.”

“Alya, I think you’re getting old,” Marinette giggled. Alya grinned, and handed her the schedule.

“Yeah, yeah, bully me all you want now. Just wait until you see the hours you’ve got–you’re going to want some coffee.”

Marinette groaned. The director had a tendency to burn the midnight oil, especially when he taught classes himself. The company put up with the ridiculous hours he kept and the even more ridiculous electricity bill he would run up during the peak of the season because he was honestly a genius. His choreography pushed the dancers’ bodies to the limit, but the sheer elegance of the show made it all worth it. The performances that had graced the opera’s stage since he became director were unparalleled in their beauty. People flocked to Paris from around the world to watch his original productions. Indeed, he had singlehandedly sparked a fervor for ballet in the global consciousness.

“You want to do dinner at my place? I’m having a bit of a party,” Alya said. Marinette glanced at her schedule: first class of the day was set for 10am. Plenty of time for her to party into the early hours and even nurse a hangover if necessary. Which, given that Alya was hosting and that she had no sense of moderation, would be more than likely.

“Yeah, I’m down for a bit of a party. Let me grab a pair of heels from my place first though. I’ll meet you there.”

-~-~-~-

The party, while fun while it was happening, was not a fun thing the next morning. Marinette tried sitting up, but the world spun and her head pounded so she laid back down.

“Marinette, you are a damn lightweight if I ever saw one,” Alya said, handing her a glass of something black and foul-smelling. “It’s 9:30. Drink.”

Marinette shot straight up and chugged the entire glass in six seconds flat. She instantly regretted both those actions, but there was no time to spare on disgust. She did find time to grimace though. “What was that? Wait, I don’t want to know. I don’t have my ballet stuff and there’s no time to go all the way to the 21ème and come back by the time class starts.” Marinette turned her big baby blues on Alya. “Could I could borrow something?”

Alya sighed, but she didn’t expect any less from Marinette. In fact, she had anticipated this very situation when she had invited her to dinner the previous day. She dropped a pre-packed duffle bag on Marinette’s lap. “Yes, I’m perceptive like that. No need to thank me–just hurry.”

They ran from the metro station to the Palais, sliding into class just as the clock struck ten. Miss Bustier frowned slightly, but didn’t comment. She clapped twice to get the class’s attention.

“Good morning! As rehearsals for _Ladybug_ will begin today and this is a mixed group, we’re going to focus on getting a good warm up so that all of you will be ready to dive directly into the choreography. I trust that _most_ of you have all done your floor stretches, so let’s start with the barre.” She looked pointedly at Marinette and Alya. They grinned sheepishly, letting the class sweep them away from her gaze. The only empty space was at a portable barre against which a single dancer was stretching.

“Do you mind if we join you?” Alya asked. The dancer looked up, shook blond hair out of his eyes, and smiled at them. Marinette’s heart stopped. “Please do. I’m Adrien, nice to meet you.”

Alya dropped her bag and gently kicked Marinette’s shin to get her to move over. “I’m Alya. Likewise. This is Marinette. She’s not usually this rude,” Alya leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper, “but she had a bit to drink last night and is still recovering.” Adrien nodded knowingly. Miss Bustier clapped again.

“Plié-two-three-four, up-six-seven-eight,” she counted. Marinette’s knees bent automatically, her heart quieting as she practiced the familiar movements. The class cycled through the usual exercises: demi then grande pliés, tendus, dégagés, so on and so forth. Marinette couldn’t take her eyes off Adrien; his form was graceful and tender, yet strong and his lines clean.

She knew of Adrien Agreste–everyone knew of Adrien Agreste. His father, Gabriel Agreste, had raised him in his footsteps, bringing him into the world of ballet from an early age. As rumor had it, it was because Gabriel was never a particularly evocative dancer; skillful, yes, and brilliant, but he lacked the charisma necessary to a strong stage presence. His son, however, was born with grace. Years of training on top of that innate talent made him everything his father could never achieve. At 21, he was already a premier danseur. And yet, he could never seem to please Gabriel. Backstage whispers said Gabriel couldn’t bear to rehearse with him because he looked too much like his mother, which explained why the company’s most popular dancer never featured in Mr. Agreste’s original productions. But that was all rumor. His skill and talent, however, could be seen by even the most casual ballet audience. He had been the star of their class at the ballet school, so Marinette had admired him from afar for years. Now that she had the chance to watch him dance up close, she was enraptured. Class was over before she knew it.

“Marinette,” Alya hissed. “Earth to Marinette, hello?” She rapped her fingers on Marinette’s skull. Marinette jolted.

“Y-yeah?”

“Marinette, were you even conscious during class?”

“I was, uh, _distracted_. A little.” Marinette blushed.

“By Adrien Agreste? Son of Mr. Gabriel Agreste, artistic director of our homely company, and a man sure to kick your ass if you so much as look at his boy?” Alya asked. “Which is understandable; he’s just trying to protect the Agreste name from scandal. But that also means he will not, nay, _cannot_ associate with hooligans of the likes of us.”

“I know he’s out of my league but you didn’t have to put it that way,” Marinette groaned. “I just have a crush.”

“Honey, I’m just trying to keep you employed and off the streets. Now let’s get lunch before I die of old age and exasperation.” Alya slung her bag over her shoulder and held the door for Marinette. “Let’s grab some coffee from that cafe down the street, then come straight back. My next class is in 25 minutes.”

“Actually, I think I’m going to find somewhere to take a nap. I’ve got a couple hours, and last night was hardly _restful_. You go ahead without me,” Marinette waved her off. Alya shrugged, motioning that she’d bring back a croissant for her. Marinette smiled, and headed for the costume department to look for Tikki.

Because the company put on so many original productions, the costume department was always a flurry of activity. It was no easy task to make new costumes for all 200-some dancers every season, but when the production was something like _Ladybug_ where they couldn’t just refurbish some old swan tutus, the sewing machines would run at all hours. Despite the noise and general chaos, Tikki was able to keep not just a clear head but managed to wrangle an army of seamstresses and to know exactly what was going on everywhere, at all times. Her omniscience could be, admittedly, a little frightening. The only person who could match her in precognition was Plagg, the man who kept shoes on all the dancers’ feet. Every dancer wore shoes customized to their feet, and the _corps de ballet_ dancers could wear through a pair a day. Together, Tikki and Plagg kept the dancers clothed and shoed with minimal hissing. They were gifts individually, but together they were a blessing from a higher being and held the thin veil that separated the Paris Opera Ballet from catastrophe.

Tikki had taken on a particular liking to Marinette, so she would occasionally allow her to curl up amongst the fabric scraps and close her eyes for a while. Just as Marinette walked into the workroom, however, Tikki caught her arm.

“You’re early, but that’s fine. I’ll just give you the mask now,” Tikki said, leading Marinette through the towering stacks of partially-finished tutus.

“What mask?”

“You don’t know? Marinette, you’re going to dance the titular role in _Ladybug_ –”

“ _What_?”

“–and so Mr. Agreste has requested a special practice costume for you. To build the character both for you and your partner. You know how he is with method acting.”

“Wait, go back. I’m a _sujet_ , not a premier danseur. How can _I_ dance Ladybug?” Marinette’s legs chose this moment to stop functioning, and she toppled over. Tikki just shrugged.

“Mr. Agreste believes in you, and your abilities. I didn’t inquire further with Nathalie,” she said, hauling Marinette to her feet, “so I have no more answers for you. Although, it’s not like it hasn’t been done. Ganio was made an _étoile_ at 19, when he was still a _[sujet](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.nytimes.com%2F2012%2F03%2F30%2Farts%2F30iht-etoile30.html&t=MDI5MGNlMmQwNTI3NWVhZDVmODkxZDE0ZDhjMzE4MGFkMDdmNTBiZixJN05nN2gwNg%3D%3D)_.” She opened a cabinet and pulled out a red mask with black polka dots and red pointe shoes. “Mr. Agreste also requests that you to wear red to the midnight practice. And don’t tell anyone you’re dancing Ladybug–it’ll break the spell.”

Marinette nodded, and accepted the costume. “Tikki, before you go, do you think I could take a nap in your office? I spent the night at Alya’s so…” Marinette let her voice trail off. Tikki smiled gently, understandingly.

“Of course, Marinette.”

-~-~-~-

Marinette’s 11pm rehearsal was in the attic studio with the director himself. Even this late, Paris was lit like a Christmas tree as it spread out below. The Eiffel Tower glittered against the starry night, putting the crescent moon to shame. As requested, Marinette had donned the mask, red shoes, and a matching red wrap. She looked the part, even if she didn’t feel it. Ladybug was meant to be brave, strong, and selfless–the perfect hero. How did Marinette–so awkward she couldn’t even function around her idol/crush/whatever–get the part? She leaned against the barre, watching the city slowly succumb to sleep below her.

Chat Noir poked his head through the door. “…Ladybug?”

Marinette swivelled on her heel. She had been expecting the black mask, but the cat ears and long tail hanging between his legs took her aback, to say nothing of the _bell_ tied around his neck. “That’s me. You took the chat part of Chat Noir quite literally, didn’t you?”

Chat grinned and stretched languidly, sinuously. His muscle tank slid over his chest, showing off his lean muscles. “Do you like it?” He winked. Marinette snorted; two could play at this game. She pushed herself off the barre, arching her back and rolling through the landing. Walking around him, she felt his eyes follow her every movement. She smiled and, standing before him once more, flicked his bell. _Ding_. His eyes went wide as saucers.

“I’d say it’s alright.” She flitted away, twirling and exaggerating the sway of her hips. She settled into a stretch against the barre once more, and Chat Noir followed suit. She hooked one ankle on the barre, then leaned across so that her fingertips just brushed the tip of her pointe shoe. Chat Noir took up a similar position, facing her.

“So, do I have the privilege to know the secret identity of the beautiful lady I’ll be dancing with?” he said. Marinette almost gave her name when she remembered Tikki’s words–no one could know. Mr. Agreste would no doubt fire her on the spot for breaking his spell, the fantasy.

“Ah, no. When we’ve got the masks on, let’s focus on becoming the characters.” Marinette paused, taking a moment to switch the leg on the barre. “Just call me Ladybug.”

“Alright, my Lady.” Chat grinned that Cheshire smile and slid into a split. The ice thoroughly broken, they continued stretching in comfortable silence. The minutes ticked on, but still Mr. Agreste didn’t appear. Chat grew restless, stopping his stretching in favor of pacing around the studio. He pawed through a stack of vinyl disks lying behind the piano, and chose an unmarked sleeve. After dusting off an old record player, he gently persuaded soft jazz from the speaker.

“We might as well dance, hm?” He spread his arms, an open invitation if Marinette ever saw one. The scene was perfect: Paris’ glow dimly filtering through the old windows, the attic studio warm from a long day under the spring sun, a trumpet singing about love in far off lands, and a dashing partner. She wavered. Her mind said _no, he’s just a damn flirt_ but her body had a different idea. Her leg had unhooked from the barre and her feet had begun sliding towards him, her arms lifting to meet his, when the door slammed open. Marinette and Chat Noir jumped, and she thanked her lucky stars her disobedient feet were so slow. Mr. Agreste and Nathalie swept into the room, their heavy footsteps echoing around the studio. He clapped twice, as if he didn’t already have their full attention.

“Turn off that record player, let’s get to work. We’re already behind schedule and there’s so much to do. Nathalie, draw the curtains and find the light switch–I don’t want to even think about what you two were doing in the darkness. You,” he paused for breath, “you are not the dancer I casted.” Marinette’s stomach dropped to her feet, until she saw that he was not looking at her, but at Chat Noir.

Chat, to his credit, just smiled. “No, I’m not. Felix is in London with the Royal Ballet. I’ve been his understudy for the past few seasons, so I’m dancing his roles while he’s gone.” Mr. Agreste nodded stiffly. Marinette noted the subtle lie; Felix was in London, but he was there for good, even if no one would admit it. The Royal Ballet had offered him a choreography job, so he retired from dancing and boarded a plane the next day. The move had shocked the entire company. He hadn’t had an understudy because no one had expected him to be anything but fully faithful to the company. Marinette wondered about the boy behind the mask. Who would dare lie to Mr. Agreste? And even more, who could do so that easily?

“Alright then. We will start with the first scene, when the audience is introduced to Ladybug and Chat Noir. Ladybug, start from stage left. Chat Noir, stage right. Quickly now.” Marinette and Chat scurried to the locations he pointed at while he and Nathalie took a seat. “Ladybug, we will start with your solo.”

Mr. Agreste was not the demonstrative type of choreographer. He rarely stood and performed the motions, preferring to give detailed instructions and purse his lips in dissatisfaction. At the end of the two-hour rehearsal, Marinette and Chat were soaked through with sweat and breathing hard while Mr. Agreste just sat and frowned. Nathalie shut the binder containing the score where she had been taking notes, and stood.

“Mr. Agreste, it is now 1:24am.”

“Then we’ll stop here. Ladybug, Chat Noir.” He nodded at Marinette’s curtsy and Chat Noir’s bow, then left in the same manner as he had entered. Their departure felt like Marinette released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. The moment the door shut, Chat too seemed to release a breath. The grin returned to his face and the swagger returned to his step.

“Good work today, my Lady.”

“Not bad yourself, alley cat.”

Marinette grinned back, and they headed downstairs together. The city was sound asleep, the streets unusually quiet for the city center. They parted ways at the front of the Palais. Chat Noir’s black getup faded into the darkness, as if he dissolved into the night itself. Safe in the winding tunnels of the metro station, Marinette removed her mask. Suddenly, she felt naked rather than unburdened. The darkness pressed against her, and without the protection of Ladybug’s strength and fiery persona, she was just Marinette. Vulnerable, small Marinette. She clutched her bag to her chest and ran home the moment the train doors slid open.

-~-~-~-

The next morning, Marinette was intensely thankful that her 10am class started so late and that Miss Bustier was such a fan of stretching. She was bone-tired, and her legs were still sore when she walked into class. She dropped her bag next to the familiar portable barre, and flopped over.

“Alya, I’m dead.”

“Late night?” Adrien asked. Marinette froze. She casually turned her head to look at him stretching opposite her.

“Y-yes! With Mr. Adrien–I mean, Mr. Gab–I mean, Mr. Agreste. Not you, Mr. Agreste, but the other Mr. Agreste. Your father. With whom you’re familiar with so I’ll just shut up now.” Marinette wished for a hole to open up and swallow her into the warm earth.

“I know the feeling,” Adrien sighed. Marinette suddenly saw the dark circles under his eyes, the unusual dullness of his skin. Did he have a rehearsal _after_ her 11pm? Alya knocked her out of her musings.

“Morning Mari, morning Adrien. You two are looking alive.”

Marinette groaned, and rolled over in her split. “Alya, please.”

“Thanks for asking about me, Marinette, my best friend. I had a great night. There’s a new pianist who played my 8pm, and he’s got _talented_ hands.” Alya grinned and winked. “His name is Nino. You two should meet him.”

“Sure, introduce us some time,” said Adrien. Marinette couldn’t believe that he could still _function_ despite how tired he looked.

“Of course I will! I’ll take you all to lunch or something.” Alya paused, thinking. “Drink some wine, have a few laughs, loosen up with some friends. It’d be fun.”

Marinette and Adrien smiled and nodded. “Sounds great.”

-~-~-~-

The last rehearsal before opening night. After three weeks of nightly rehearsals, Ladybug had let go of her reservations about dancing the part, and undergone a transformation. Now, she became invincible. Adrien had taken to putting on that jazz disc before Ladybug arrived so that she could hear the familiar trumpet wailing when she neared the attic. Like every night, he offered to dance. Like every night, she declined. Like every night, Mr. Agreste and Nathalie arrived abruptly, announced only by the click of their hard-soled shoes against the floor. Nathanael shuffled in behind them, clutching sheet music to his chest.

“Start at the top of the pas de deux. Just keep going–I’ll stop you when necessary.” They took their familiar seats while Ladybug and Adrien took their familiar positions across the stage. Adrien, center stage, gazing into the distance as he waited for the piano to start. Ladybug entered, gliding across the stage on pointe. She brushed her fingers across his jaw, a pirouette, and flitted away. She leaned into a lunge, coiling her fingers in a _come hither_ motion. Adrien followed her excitedly, mirroring her arabesque and spin. He guided her through turn after turn, then she spun _him_ , his motions perfect reflections of adoration. He dipped her low, lying her flat on the ground with her arms above her head. He rolled back on his heels before taking her by the wrists, kissing the backs of her hands, and pulling her back to her feet.

“That’s enough. Stop there. Thank you, Nathanael.” The music stopped abruptly and they sprang apart. Mr. Agreste begins giving criticism of their dancing–small tweaks to the choreography–but Adrien knows that he and Ladybug were perfectly in sync so he lets his mind drift.

Adrien was glad for the upteenth time that the mask came down so low, that it hid his blush from when he pulled her close. He was glad that Chat was in love with Ladybug as he had become. He loved her strength, her diligence, and her skill. He loved the way her muscles rippled under his hands when he lifted her, the way she smiled cheekily when he spun under her arm. He knew it showed, so he could only pray that the adoration he felt came through as acting rather than some gross misunderstanding of their relationship. He didn’t know her name, but he didn’t have to. After so many weeks of late-night rehearsals, he had come to know the dancer behind the mask more intimately than anyone else in his life. All the walls came down when they stepped into the attic studio. When Paris fell asleep, Adrien was able to explore the sides of himself that could never be attached to the Agreste name. His mask and the cover of darkness let him adopt the reckless persona of Chat Noir, even when they’re not dancing.

“ _Chaton_ ,” Ladybug whispered in his ear, “are you paying attention?”

He blinked, and realized that everyone was looking at him. He ducked his head and rubbed his neck under Mr. Agreste’s glower. “Ah, sorry, could you repeat that?”

“I would like to see the pirouettes again, with the modifications I have noted. Or do you have an objection, Chat Noir?” His voice was scathing, as usual.

“No objection!” he yelped, and acquiesced to Ladybug’s firm hand on his waist.

“He wants you to dance this in a more masculine manner–like you’re mirroring me, but putting your own _spin_ on it,” she whispered in his ear as they readied themselves. He snorted at the pun, and out of the corner of his eye saw Ladybug’s lips twitch upwards. “Yes, my Lady.”

They danced the pirouettes over and over again, tweaking the set of a shoulder here, the lean of a hip there, until Mr. Agreste was satisfied.

“Good, Chat Noir. Nathalie, what was the other part I wanted to work on?”

“That was it, Mr. Agreste.”

“How unusual. It appears we are done for today. Rest up, you two–you’ve got a big night.” And just like that, Mr. Agreste and Nathalie were gone. Nathanael gathered his music as Adrien and Ladybug dressed.

“Since we’re out early tonight, do you want to grab a drink?” Adrien asked, casually leaning against the barre in an attempt to hide the way his heart was beating.

“It may be early for us, but Paris has already fallen asleep. Maybe next time.” Ladybug said, slinging her bag onto her shoulder. She made to move towards the door, so Adrien tucked his bag under his arm and let the subject drop.

-~-~-~-

Opening night, they danced beautifully. Mr. Agreste almost smiled when they took their final bow, so Adrien knew they were perfect in his eyes. He could feel it too–his motions and Ladybug’s were totally in sync. On stage, in front of all of Paris, they had connected subliminally. Adrien had felt naked, as if performing the choreography they had practiced with embarrassing intimacy had revealed his deepest desires, but Ladybug’s presence grounded him. Their technique was perfect; every step stable, every move strong, and every glance piercing.

The critics were not so impressed. Adrien walked into his 10am class to see everyone crowded together in the center of the room. Marinette’s voice rang out from the bottom of the pile of bodies.

“ _Miraculous Ladybug_ could very well be the pinnacle of contemporary French ballet, and with Mr. Gabriel Agreste directing, no less is expected. Indeed, it seems he has passed his own dance style onto the fresh faces on the stage this season.” Marinette’s voice dropped, and a murmur passed through the crowd. “The characters of Ladybug and Chat Noir are Mr. Agreste’s pride and joy–they dance with the technical perfection he was known for before his retirement, and the accompanying emotional dearth. The dancing is controlled, micromanaged even. As the performance goes on, it becomes clear that the dancers are almost too restrained, as if there are underlying emotions they do not dare express. Mr. Agreste’s iconic technical perfection hides the true potential of the choreography. Perhaps it is time for him to loosen his iron grip.”

There was a moment of silence, then the crowd erupted into an uproar. Twenty voices protested the review, another ten crying disbelief. Adrien remained silent, letting their anger and disappointment wash over him. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t have anything to say. The critics were right in that his father pushed his style upon his dancers, and especially his leads. Mr. Agreste had a controlling personality infamous around the world, but that didn’t mean he liked it when people pointed it out. He would be furious; he was always furious.

Miss Bustier walked into the studio, and the class settled down. Her expression was strained, her usual smile not quite reaching her eyes. She looked around, noted that the class was present, and nodded. “Mr. Agreste is a little uneasy today, so work hard in rehearsal. Let’s start with the barre.” She turned to the pianist and the class scattered across the room. “The regular warmup if you will, Nino.”

Nino’s hands were languid as they tapped out the familiar melody, and the dancers’ feet matched his tempo. They melted into their pliés and stretched like cats into their tendus. Nino’s hands awoke at the dégagés, and suddenly their feet flew. Adrien fell into the rhythmic thump of pointe shoes against the hard floor, of soft ballet slippers sweeping around muscular legs, of Nino’s piano keeping them all in line. Time was marked more by the tap of the dancers’ feet than by the ticking of the clock on the far wall.

Miss Bustier guided them through the warm up, then ran through the _corps de ballet_ ’s portion of the grand pas. Adrien fumbled through the moves; his cover for dancing Chat Noir was that he was in the corps, but he hadn’t bothered to actually learn the choreography. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Marinette, thankfully, seemed to be fumbling as well. At least he wasn’t alone in making a fool of himself.

“Adrien, Marinette, since neither of your partners are present, please pair up for the partner dance,” Miss Bustier said. Marinette flushed to the ears as she joined him in the back corner.

“Yes ma’am,” they said. Miss Bustier smiled knowingly as she turned to the rest of the class. “Nino, from the partnered pirouette, please.”

The class lined up across the length of the studio, so Adrien and Marinette tucked themselves into a corner. They watched the other dancers and copied their movements, but they were jerky and uncoordinated. Adrien dropped her on a lift, and Marinette kicked him in the face on an arabesque. They decided they were even when they kept tripping over each other’s feet and drove their neighbors crazy with their apologizing.

“One more time, from the pirouettes towards the back through the end, and then we’re done,” Miss Bustier called out. There was only one partnered move in that part–a simple spin, his hands on her waist to keep her steady as she turned. It was a move Adrien had perfected with Ladybug, but with Marinette he could only hope they would synchronize half as well. As she danced into his arms, he was struck with a sense of familiarity. She spun in his hands, and a flash of red caught his eye. He jolted. There was no way Marinette could be Ladybug; he would have recognized her immediately. They would have connected subconsciously. There was no way. He brushed off the earrings as a coincidence.

“Alright, that’s enough. Thanks for the hard work today; please continue to keep it up through the rest of your rehearsals.” The class thanked her and started filing out of the studio. Alya grabbed Marinette and Adrien before they could leave.

“Let’s get lunch.”

Marinette protested, but Alya cut her off. “Marinette, you never leave the studio, you’re as pale as paper. Please let me feed you some carbs. Besides, Adrien is coming, right?” She turned to him with a grin and a wink. Intrigued, Adrien nodded. “See, it’ll be fun. Let’s go!” And with that, Alya swept Marinette away, Adrien tagging along behind.

Alya’s favorite cafe was a few streets down from the Palais; just far enough to muffle the hustle and bustle around the metro station, but close enough to enjoy the full duration of their lunch break. They found Nino waiting for them at a table set for four, pouring red wine.

“I know it’s a bit early to be drinking, but nothing goes better with camembert than pinot noir,” Nino said sheepishly. Adrien grimaced a little, and Nino’s smile drooped. “That _is_ alright, no?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s just that camembert is quite, you know, fragrant, and I’m honestly not a super-fan. But that pairing sounds great.” Adrien said, then noticed Marinette’s expression–best described as constipated. _Did I offend her?_ “Marinette, are you okay?”

“Yes–I love cheeks–I mean, I love cheese–I’m fine! Let’s eat!” She squeaked. She clapped her hands over her face and gestured for them to sit, so they did. Alya flirts unabashedly with everyone at the table, and Nino matches her in intensity. Two glasses of wine and a quarter wheel of cheese later, Marinette caught Alya and Nino making eyes at each other and loudly complained for them to get a room. Alya rolled her eyes and Nino blushed. Adrien noticed Marinette’s red cheeks, the stutter replaced by a slight slur to her words, and pushed his plate aside.

“Marinette, are you feeling alright? I can take you home to rest if you need–”

“Agreste, are you sure about this? She lives in the 21ème,” said Alya, suddenly attentive.

“It’s really not a problem, my next rehearsal isn’t until right before dress. Besides, you and Nino have a 2pm together, right? So you’d better get going.” Adrien smiled then, pouring on all the charm he inherited from his mother. Alya checked the time on her phone and yelped.

“Then I’m entrusting her to you. She lives across the street from the Tom & Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie, along the Seine,” Alya said, then slammed some bills on the table. “Got it?” Adrien nodded, and Alya took off back towards the Palais with Nino in tow, yelling something about death wishes and tardiness. The sudden quiet felt unbearably intimate, and Marinette seemed to feel just as uncomfortable as Adrien.

“Shall we?” He made to help her out of her chair, but she waved him off.

“I’m a big girl, I can stand on my own and everything, thank you very much.” Marinette stumbled a bit, but caught herself. “See?”

Adrien smothered his grin and nodded. “Yes, of course. After you, then.” He followed her back towards the metro in ambivalent silence, not wanting to upset her again but also wanting to ask why she was so uncomfortable around him when she was sober. They reached the platform just as the train pulled out of the station, leaving them alone together.

“So…” Adrien let his voice trail off. Marinette tugged her coat tighter around herself, and Adrien’s throat dried up on the spot. They spent to rest of the trip in awkward silence, Adrien too wary of upsetting her again to speak. When they arrived her apartment, Marinette fiddled with her keys in the cramped hallway. Jiggling the lock, Marinette finally spoke.

“I’m so sorry about this, the building is so old and about as spacious as a thumbtack, but it’s cheap and I can see Notre Dame from my window so–” the door finally gave way and she tumbled over the threshold. “So here we are! My humble abode. It’s not much but it’s…not much. Sorry for the mess. Please, make yourself at home.” She gestured vaguely towards an unmade sofa bed all but filling the living room. Marinette clamored over the piles of clothing strewn across the floor towards the bathroom. The bathroom cabinet, like the front door, was jammed when she tried to open it. When it gave in to her tugging, she fell back and caught herself a hair’s width from cracking her head on the opposite wall. She muttered something about a headache while she rummaged through the cabinet, grasping at bottles. Advil in hand, she flopped onto the sofa. Adrien stiffened, then relaxed again when she didn’t move to smother him. He had been spending too much time with Chloe, which was doing no favors for his mental health.

“So, you’re not really in the _corps_ either, are you?” Adrien said.

“You could tell?”

“I noticed you watching the other dancers and being a half-step behind the music, so I assumed. Don’t worry, I was doing the same thing.”

“I didn’t think the company would let Mr. Agreste–your father, I mean–put you in the _corps_. Not that there’s anything wrong with the _corps_. It’s just that you’re a principle dancer and it’s unusual for him to _not_ take advantage of your talents.”

Adrien hesitated before saying, “It’s personal.”

Marinette’s eyes went wide and her mouth opened, words spilling out like floodwaters. “Did I go too far? Sorry, sometimes I just speak without thinking and–”

“No, no, it’s fine. My father is a serious man, and he doesn’t want to show favoritism when it comes to me. It’s no big deal. His legacy has given me an unfair advantage already.” Adrien took a deep breath to steady his trembling heart. “Often I don’t know if I’m getting roles because of my skills or because of my name. I don’t want to be ‘that Agreste kid,’ not really. I just want to be Adrien.” He smiled at her wide-eyed expression, his heart beating out of his chest. He had never admitted these thoughts, these insecurities, to anyone else before. Other than Plagg, but Plagg instinctively knew everything about every dancer in the company, so he didn’t really count. Marinette was quiet, thoughtful.

“I’m glad you confided in me. Thank you.” She spoke softly, and his fear dissipated. They lay on the sofa bed, watching the sun sink below the Parisian skyline as they talked. The streetlights flickered on, and Marinette’s stomach grumbled.

“Time to dig up some dinner, I guess,” Marinette groaned, rolling towards her kitchen. She opened her empty cupboards and sighed before reaching for the lonely bag of pasta. “Do you like farfalle?”

Adrien considered the circumstances that would drive someone to have only one bag of pasta in their cupboards, that would force them into a New York-sized apartment in Paris. He considered the typical pay for a Paris Opera Ballet dancer (barely a living wage) and the cost of dinner in the 21ème (way too much). He went for the pasta.

“I love pasta. Do you have a tomato or two, for sauce?” He crawled on the sofa bed towards the kitchen.

“I might be able to find something. You wanna…do that thing?” She gestured vaguely at the pot hanging from a nail on the wall. Adrien nodded, and put on water to boil. Marinette sat on her kitchen windowsill, hooking her toes on a cabinet handle. She leaned backwards, her torso dangling precariously from her 5th story window with her legs keeping her in a delicate balancing act. Arching her back in the way only a dancer can, she reached down to the hanging tomato plant below her windowsill. She curled back up with a tomato in each hand and a grin on her face.

“My landlord doesn’t allow house plants, so my downstairs neighbor and I made this arrangement. Can I use the sink?” Adrien nodded, and flattened himself against the countertop. Marinette shimmied past. The narrowness of the kitchen became apparent when Marinette shimmied past. Her inhale, to better squeeze past, seemed to draw the air from Adrien’s own lungs. The moment passed, but Adrien remained short of breath.

“Do you, uh, actually know how to make pasta sauce from scratch?” Marinette held up her tomatoes with a sheepish smile. Adrien nodded. Pasta sauce was in fact the only thing he could make. He had picked it up from his mom when they had made it together when he was a kid and his dad was away, dancing in far off places. Gabriel never let his family eat such indulgent foods under his watch, but Mama Agrete had picked up an insatiable craving for pasta when she studied abroad in Italy, and secretly cooked greasy, cheesy delights whenever he turned his back.

“I’ll even give you my family’s recipe. But don’t tell anyone–it’s an Agreste secret.” He winked, and looked around for a cutting board. He threw onions, garlic, salt, and pepper in a pan to soften while he diced the tomatoes. Then in they went with a few leaves of thyme. He stirred until the sauce thickened, then poured the pasta directly from the pot into the saucepan, giving it a good stir to combine fully. Plate and, with a flourish, he said, “ _voila_. _Pasta perfetta_.”

Marinette smiled, and her stomach grumbled again. “You know what would make this more perfect? The view from the roof. Trust me on this one.” Plates in hand, they climbed the stairs to what was really a glorified ceiling rafter. Marinette handed her plate to Adrien, pushing on a low skylight until it opened just enough for them to climb through. The spring breeze was brisk, but Adrien forgot about the chill when he saw Notre Dame glittering across the Seine. Marinette sighed contentedly, twirling her fork between her fingers.

“I put up with this shitty apartment, shitty landlord, and shitty neighbors because of this. Well, this, and location. My parents run the bakery and I help them between seasons. But this?” Marinette paused and made a grand sweeping gesture, “This always lifts my mood.” Suddenly self conscious, she blushed and took a big bite of pasta.

“Do you like it?” Adrien asked. Marinette nodded, and he beamed with pride. “The Agreste recipe never fails to delight.” She appreciated the last remnant of his mother just as much as he did. He was radiant with joy and light-headed in his ascent to heaven itself. He could even hear holy bells tolling in the distance.

“–ien. Adrien. Uh, Adrien?” Marinette tapped his shoulder, and he found his feet back on earth. Not holy bells. Regular bells. Regular bells attached to Notre Dame, ringing at an unbelievable proximity. Living near the Palais, he had forgotten how loud these bells were.

“Sorry, what?”

“The bells are tolling, so it’s probably time for us to head back. For rehearsal.”

“Oh, yes, of course. After you.” They climbed back through the skylight, down the rickety stairs, and into her cramped kitchen. They dropped their plates in the sink with a promise to wash them later, then Marinette shooed Adrien off.

“I need to change into costume, and it takes a while, so you go on without me.”

Adrien wanted to interject, then remembered that this was  _Marinette_ , not some damsel in distress. He closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their dance is adapted from the bedroom pas de deux of Manon.
> 
> Adrien’s pasta sauce recipe is really Martha Stewart's pasta sauce recipe: http://www.marthastewart.com/340586/easy-chunky-tomato-sauce


	2. Chapter 2

At their next 11pm, Mr. Agreste directed them with more emotion. “Dance like you love her, Chat Noir, like you would die for her. I want you to kiss with her with the set of your shoulders, the curve of your arm around her waist.” Chat snickered quietly, and his arms around her waist tightened. They were close enough to share the same skin. “And Ladybug, flirt back. Lean a little farther, really arch your back there,” Mr. Agreste said, and Marinette arched like she was picking tomatoes from her windowsill. She thought of Adrien, briefly, silhouetted against Notre Dame with a smile dancing around his eyes. “Yes, good. Beautiful.”

And they are beautiful. They are a team, their movements sure and practiced. They have complete faith not only in themselves but in each other, so with the critic’s scathing words on their minds, they suddenly feel free to convey that complete trust in each other through their dancing. In the past, Marinette would plant her feet before leaning into Chat, but now she threw herself into his arms and trusted him to catch her. She pushed the limits of her balance, flexed and twirled and spun with abandon in her confidence in their connection. And he caught her every time. She leaned, balancing on the edge of her pointe shoe with her arm extended behind her, trusting Chat to catch her wrist, counter her weight, and keep her from faceplanting. He spun her around, pulling her back upright. She fluttered away, flashed the audience a grin, then ran, leaping, into his waiting arms. She hooked her leg around his neck, and collapsed around his shoulder.

Marinette should hear her heart beating in her ears, could hear Chat’s heart matching her beat for beat. The pianist’s hands lifted off the keys for a second, and time seemed to stop. Then, gently, note by note, the melody picked up again. Marinette slithered off Chat’s shoulder while he remained frozen. Her fingertips traced a circle as she lifted her arms above her head. One hand on her hip and the other at her temple, she leaned to the left and twisted her leg behind her. As she unwound, she turned to face the audience. Her forearms parallel, she flicked her fingers up and down, up and down, then spun her hands around each other so that they seemed like a wheel. Then her hand returned to her hip and the other followed her free leg as it twisted and turned around her standing leg, finally coming to rest at a full extension. The tempo picked up.

Her leg swung down and around, and she knocked on the sole of her shoe, pushing it to a side tendu. Pulling her leg in from the knee, she swung her hips and pushed back out to a tendu in plie. She drew herself back up to her full height and spun around. Arms outstretched to the sides, she evoked the image of righteousness and justice. She adjusted her stance, pointing her foot behind her and angling herself towards the corner of the studio, then spun her front arm like a windmill, then stopping it abruptly in front of her. A few fouettes, coming out of them in a lunge, and she curled her arms around her head.

“Bye-bye _petit papillon_ ,” she whispered as she unwrapped herself, stretching to her full height with her palms open. Chat Noir, suddenly reanimated, stood with his back to her but with his head turned as if his cat ears were waiting for her return. Marinette bent her knees and pushed off into a series of pirouettes that brought her straight to Chat’s outstretched hand. He spun her into his chest, then in an allusion to the iconic Black Swan’s _pas de deux_ , she spun in his hands like a top, her free leg slowly making its way from her knee to the floor. Standing on both feet, she spread her arms, and he kneeled before her. She tossed her arms back and lifted her leg into an arabesque. The music cut off with a decisive finality.

“Good. That was good,” said Mr. Agreste, “But not good enough. Again, from the beginning of your solo, Ladybug, but this time with feeling.” Marinette nodded, and she went to Chat Noir, already crouching and ready for her.

“You were good,” Chat whispered as she wrapped herself around his shoulder.

“Thanks, but Mr. Agreste is the one we’ve got to please,” she whispered back.

“Ready please,” Nathalie called out, and nodded at the pianist. Nathanael breathed deeply, and softly set his fingers on the keys. Marinette let herself be lifted by the music, as if she were puppeteered by the piano strings. She matched her every breath to Nathanael’s hands. This time when she turned to face their audience of two, she saw only the Eiffel Tower, twinkling with a thousand lights in the distance. Marinette drank in the hope and wonder emanating from the Tower and Mr. Agreste’s cold eyes faded in comparison. Buoyed by her sudden lightness, Marinette danced like gravity was losing its grip on her. She spun faster, jumped higher, smiled wider than she knew was possible. As Ladybug, she became the impossible, and Chat told her so with the look of absolute wonder in his eyes as he knelt before her.

“That was excellent, Ladybug. Do it again for the show, and we might actually have something worth performing.” Mr. Agreste checked his watch and stood to leave. “That will be all for today.” Nathalie gave them a look, as if she wanted to apologize for Mr. Agreste’s rough manner and tell the dancers just how talented they were, but thought better of it and followed her boss out of the studio.

“That was really gorgeous,” Chat said casually as Marinette pulled on her leg warmers. “Of course, you’re always great, but that was something special.”

“Oh _mon chaton_ , don’t be such a flatterer,” she replied. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Chat just chuckled and continued, saying, “I’m not a flatterer, I’m saying it like it is. You’re the most amazing dancer I know, Ladybug.”

“I bet you haven’t seen _Adrien Agreste_ dance. Now there’s something magical.”

Chat choked, as if she had punched him in the stomach. “Adrien Agreste? Pfft, he’s overrated. He hasn’t got half your charm or skill, I swear.”

“Now I know you haven’t seen him. He’s in one of my classes and let me tell you, he’s got a gift,” Marinette said sternly. Who was this Chat Noir to be shit-talking Paris’s favorite dancer? Her favorite dancer? Chat raised his eyebrows.

He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Careful my Lady, or you might reveal too much.”

“Mmm, I’m not too worried about that, silly cat,” she countered, matching him in intensity.

“Uh, Ladybugs and gentle-cats, are you two planning on heading out soon or do you want to lock up?” Nathanael asked.

“Go ahead. We can finish up here,” Marinette said. Nathanael nodded and tucked his sheet music under his arm as he left. Marinette went to turn off the remaining lights, but Chat Noir caught her wrist.

“Stay. Dance with me, just for a little bit,” he whispered. The streetlamps reflected off his black mask, and his blond hair fell in a mop, framing his face. Standing there so perfectly silhouetted in the semidarkness, his green eyes seemed to glow and becken her. She was enraptured, but her mind raged. _What about Adrien? Chat Noir is just a friend, a partner, a flirt. The one you love is Adrien, so what is this?_ Marinette broke eye contact and shook her head.

“We’ve been dancing all night.”

“I know, but I don’t want to stop.”

“Silly cat.” Marinette smiled at him, and tugged her wrist away. “There’s always tomorrow.”

Chat nodded. “Right. Tomorrow, then. I’ll lock up.”

“See you on stage,” Marinette said, and slung her bag over her shoulder. Chat Noir watched her leave, and then he was alone in the studio.

-~-~-~-

Alya, as promised, was waiting for Marinette outside the Palais with a coffee in each hand. The morning sun was bright and glinted off the gold leaf, which was really just so _extra_. Alya, ever patient, sighed and squinted harder at the metro station. She had asked Marinette if she wanted to be roommates partly because rent was atrocious around this part of Paris, and partly so that she could fulfill her mother hen instinct and make sure Marinette was getting taken care of. Lord knows Mari couldn’t handle herself. She had declined graciously, saying that she wanted to be close to her parents and the Seine, so Alya had acquiesced. Of course, now Marinette was late to everything, everywhere, including coffee with Alya on a rare day off.

Alya balanced the coffees in one hand and scrolling through her messages with the other. A couple from her roommate, asking about groceries, and a series of emojis from Nino. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a bright pink coat emerge from the metro station, so she slid her phone into her pocket and waved Marinette over.

“You’re gorgeous, absolutely radiant today, babe,” Alya said as she handed Marinette her coffee.

“Thanks. Worth the wait?” Marinette did a little twirl, her buttercup yellow skirt floating around her thighs.

“Never. You’re so late. I’m buying you a new alarm clock–a real one, with bells and shit.” Marinette pouted, and Alya laughed. “Don’t give me that face, you know it’s for your own good.” Alya grinned and slid her arm around Marinette’s waist. “So let’s get going!”

They strolled down the boulevard with their arms around each other in easy friendship, chatting about nothing in particular. That new movie Alya wanted to see, the weird cookie recipes Marinette had tried, the EDM album Nino was working on in his off hours. They swerved around sidewalk cafes, squeezing between patrons sitting on the curb and the cars whizzing by in the street. Cigarette smoke mixed with exhaust and clung to the skyline, creating clouds where there were previously only clear skies. Several stories above, the iconic blue roofs were stained a permanent gray tone from the smog. When they turned a corner, a group of tourists gawking at the Palais, taking up the entire sidewalk to do so, forced them to cross the street. In typical Parisian style, they crossed without regard to incoming traffic, so Marinette narrowly missed getting run over by a bright red scooter. She yelled some expletives back at the driver while they were still in earshot, but Alya dragged her onwards before she could really make a scene.

“I just don’t see how he has the time–oh.” Marinette stopped, realizing where they had ended up; where Alya had led them. Marinette didn’t get very many opportunities to shop at the Galeries Lafayette, what between her distinct lack of funds and spending every waking moment at the studio. From her few visits, however, she had the impression that this place was what dreams were made of: four floors of glittering lights and shining marble, designer clothes hanging from gilded hooks, and, most importantly, a price tag to match. Dreams don’t come cheap, especially not those of the sartorial variety. “Uh, Alya, I’m broke, if you recall.”

“I do recall. I recall also that you had some alone time with Adrien and I want you to tell me about it. The dress we’re going to get you for my next party is on me.”

“You’re planning another party?”

“Mari, babe, I’m always planning another party. Now get in there.” Alya pulled Marinette’s arm tight to her body and dragged her through the doors. Instantly, the rumble of the street dulled to a low hum, replaced by the sound of clicking stilettoes and hushed conversation. Three floors of gold leaf and incandescent bulbs towered around them while a stained-glass dome rested above it all. On the ground floor, cosmetics stands crowded together. Models in perfect lipstick stared down at them from posters, their expressionless faces reflected on the marble floor. Alya made a beeline for the escalator. Once they were both securely situated, she draped her arm over Marinette’s shoulders, then gave her a quick squeeze. “Now spill.”

“Spill what?”  
  


Alya rolled her eyes at Marinette’s feigned innocence. “What happened after Nino and I left you alone with Adrien?”

“Oh, nothing much.” Marinette turned away, her face flushing.

“From the way your face is cooking like steaks on the grill, I call bullshit.”

“We had dinner, that’s all.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“Don’t give me that. Tell me where he took you.”

“He didn’t take me anywhere. We ate at my place. Sort of.” They stepped off the escalator and Alya steered her through the racks of clothes.

“Sort of? Mari, I’ve been to your apartment, you don’t even have floor space for a mouse, much less a dinner table.”

“We…ate on the roof. Of my apartment. You know, on that ledge you can only get to through that one creaky skylight? It was dusk, and he made his mom’s pasta sauce recipe, and there was a little breeze that flipped his hair just so, and Alya, I ascended to heaven right there.” Marinette flushed deeper at the memory, but kept going. “We talked about his family–his father’s legacy and all that. A real heart-to-heart moment.” Alya was unusually quiet, thoughtful, for a second.

“Mari, that’s heartbreakingly romantic, you know that right?”

“What do you mean heartbreakingly?”

Alya removed her arm from Marinette’s shoulders and pulled a dress from the rack. “This looks like it’s your size. Go try it on.” She pushed her into a dressing room, whipping her phone out the moment the door shut.

[ _party at my place, tonight_ ]

[Nino: alya we have work tonight]

[ _this is for the greater good_ ]

[Nino: mari?]

[ _yup_ ]

[Nino: i’ll bring adrien then]

[Nino: and the wine]

[Nino: see you after the show?]

[ _i love that you can just read my mind like that_ ]

[Nino: i love that you love that about me]

Marinette emerged from the changing room and tapped on Alya’s shoulder. “Is that Nino?”

Alya turned around and put her phone back into her pocket. “Yup. Just planning the party. Now, let me look at you.”

The dress had sleeves that fell to Marinette’s wrists, accentuating her slender wrists and delicate fingers. The skirt skimmed over her hips to hit mid-thigh; short enough to be enticing and show off her dancer’s legs, long enough to be comfortable–a perfect length for dancing outside the studio and therefore nearly impossible to find. A panel of mesh and fine floral lace curled around the collar and tapered to a point just above her navel. The bright red color brought out the blue in her eyes and the flush in her cheeks. “What do you think?” Marinette said, giving her a little twirl, the skirt ballooning around her. She cocked her hip and struck a pose that would be perfectly at home on a catwalk. Alya approved wholeheartedly.

“It’s perfect. Adrien will love it. Plus, that lace design with that shade of red reminds me of Ladybug’s costume, so I think you should consider it.” Alya said, almost missing the way Marinette’s eyes flashed.

“Yes, of course. I think we’re done here,” Marinette said, and turned around to put her clothes back on. Alya raised an eyebrow, thinking about the look that passed over Marinette’s face whenever Ladybug was mentioned, but discarded the explanation that popped into her head. Marinette would’ve told her if she were dancing Ladybug. They were best friends, that’s how things worked. Besides, in her hunt to figure out Ladybug’s identity, she had already ruled out Marinette. While lovely and a talented dancer, she didn’t have the same charisma Ladybug exuded onstage, not to mention the shameless way she flirted with Chat Noir. Marinette would die before she would dance like that.

Marinette emerged from the dressing room, clutching the dress in her hands. “Alya, are you sure about this? It’s expensive and I have plenty of other dresses.”

Alya brushed off her concerns with a wave of her hand. “Just cut me an extra big slice of cake at your wedding and we’ll call it even. How does that sound?”

“That’s not an equivalent exchange,” said Marinette. She crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.

“I promise it is. Think of it as good karma or something. Just let me do this for you,” Alya pleaded. When Marinette didn’t budge, she sighed. No more nice cop, time to pull out the big guns. She put her hands on her friend’s shoulders and looked her in the eye. “I swear to the almighty God in heaven Mari, I will go down with this ship so you had better hand me that dress or I _will_ pick you up, princess style, and carry you and the dress to the register.” Marinette blinked once, and just like that, she acquiesced and handed over the dress. Alya smiled and slung her arm around her shoulders. “Thanks, babe.”

“Yeah, yeah, at least let me bring the food for the party,” she said.

“Whatever you want,” Alya agreed, and pulled out her wallet. The cashier scanned the dress and swiped Alya’s card.

“Did everything go well?”

“Everything was excellent,” Alya said with a smile.

“Great. Thank you very much for shopping with us. Have a nice day,” the cashier said. Marinette and Alya bid her goodbye and went back to the ground floor, allowing themselves to snake through the cosmetics on their way out the door. Just for fun, they stopped at the Chanel stand and poked around the lipsticks.

“What do you think about a bright orange, to match my hair?” asked Alya. She held up a truly neon orange that, admittedly, matched the tips of her hair perfectly. “Too much?”

“You might be surprised, actually. Try it on,” said the sales attendant, suddenly appearing behind the counter. Marinette fell a half-step backwards in shock and grabbed Alya’s shoulder. She hauled her friend back onto her own two feet and graciously accepted the mirror the attendant offered her. The lipstick was sheer, giving her an ever-so-slight orange tint rather than completely concealing her natural lip color. The subtle similarity between her hair and her lips came off coordinated and, as the attendant noted, unspeakably chic.

“It would be perfect with that _je ne sais quoi_ attitude that’s so in vogue,” the attendant said. Alya cocked her hip and flipped her hair, and the attendant laughed. “Yes, that exactly. Stunning.” Alya looked at Marinette, who just shrugged.

“She’s right. It’s a good look for you.”

Alya put the lipstick back into its slot on the display, thanked the attendant, and made to leave. The attendant called out to them, and Alya explained the unbelievably low wages in their line of work, so she glanced around furtively and pressed the lipstick into Alya’s hand.

“Don’t tell my boss, but I think you should have it. This color was made for you, and beautiful girls should have beautiful things. We’ll call it advertising on the streets, no?”

“I absolutely cannot–”

“You absolutely can, and absolutely should. Now go, before I regret this decision!” The attendant shooed them away from the counter with a smile and a wave. Marinette and Alya were out the door in half a heartbeat. Another heartbeat, and they were standing on the metro platform.

“Did that just happen?” said Alya, dazed.

“I think that just happened,” said Marinette. Alya’s phone pinged.

“Nino wants to know what kind of cheese we’re thinking, so he can pair the wine.”

Marinette considered the beads of sweat making their way down her back from their dash down the metro station, the way Alya’s hair was beginning to friz on the ends, and the way her skirt that had seemed so airy that morning began to stick to her skin in the afternoon heat.

“Something light, probably a goat cheese. Can I request rosé?”

“Sure can,” Alya said, then tapped out the message. “Good choice. It’s too hot for anything heavy.” Marinette sighed in agreement and inched closer to the cool tiles of the platform wall. She didn’t press her back against it though–glorious though it may have felt, this was still Paris and after living in the city for all her life, she could only guess what kind of vermin clung in wait for her exposed skin.

The train was, at least, blessedly air conditioned. It smelled like sweaty feet, but Marinette was willing to give up the luxury of using her nose if it meant escaping the heat. They went to Marinette’s apartment; even though the groceries were expensive in the 5éme, they were exorbitantly so close to Alya’s. From the corner store, Alya picked up the goat cheese, as promised, and assorted other delicacies including pastries from the bakery while Marinette changed into the red dress.

The heat was uncomfortable on the ground, but it was outright oppressive on the fourth floor. Marinette changed quickly, throwing her clothes on the sofa haphazardly in her haste. High heels on, and she was out the door. Alya waited for her, shopping bag in hand, at the base of her building.

“I was right, this is a great dress on you,” Alya said, taking her arm.

“You have great taste,” Marinette replied.

“I know. Thank me later.” Alya smiled, and Marinette wondered at what she was planning. Something wicked, probably. She asked Alya about it, but she just laughed and waved her off. Alya reassured her that whatever she was planning, it was nothing to worry about, which only worried her more. Marinette prodded her for answers throughout the trip back to Alya’s, but Alya remained steadfast. Nino was waiting for them at the mouth of the metro station, and Alya rushed into his waiting arms, glad for the reprieve from her friend’s questioning.

“Hey gorgeous,” he murmured into her hair. Alya mumbled something incoherent, so Nino looked back at Marinette, who just shrugged.

“Alright, alright, let’s go upstairs. Adrien is already here.” At this, Alya bolted upright, her eyes flicking from Nino to Marinette. Before either of them could respond, she grabbed both their arms and hauled them up into her apartment. She slammed the door open to find Adrien halfway between the kitchen and the dining room–well, living room turned dining room–with a set of plates in his hands, the table half-set with silverware and candles. Actual burning candles. The boys had the thought to turn on the air conditioning before lighting them, so the apartment was cool despite the candles.

“Hi Alya, Marinette,” he said, and continued on his way. Alya instructed Marinette to help him, since she had to have a word with Nino, and deposited the shopping bag into her hands. They disappeared into her bedroom, the door closing with a solid thump, so Marinette was, once again, alone with Adrien. She hurried to the kitchen muttering something about cheese. She set the bag on the countertop and heard the soft click of Adrien’s shoes across the hall. No, closer. The click of his shoes leaving the dining room and entering the kitchen. The very small, very crowded kitchen. Marinette felt a rush of déjà vu. How she keep getting herself into tiny kitchens with Adrien Agreste?

“Marinette, I want to apologize,” he said, his voice soft and his eyes shining. “I was out of line, telling you those things you had no responsibility to hear, and I know they’re unpleasant, uncomfortable things, so I’m sorry.”

Marinette turned to face him slowly, disbelief clear on her features. “You’re kidding.”

“I–what? No, I’m not. What do you mean, kidding?”

Marinette shook her head, feeling a laugh starting to bubble up through her chest, but she squashed it. “There’s no reason for you to be sorry. I told you I’m glad that you feel safe enough around me to open up like that, and I meant it. I still mean it. Really, it’s fine. That’s what friends are for.” She smiled at him, and he beamed back like sunshine personified.

“Thank you for listening, then, Marinette. Do you want help with that?” He gestured to the wheel of cheese she had left sitting on the counter, still in its wrapping paper.

“Oh, no, it’s fine, I can handle this. Not even _I_ can mess up unwrapping cheese. Besides, you don’t like the smell, right?” Marinette said. Adrien’s features twisted through confusion, then surprise, then settled on amused.

“No, no, cheese in general is fine. It’s just camembert that’s a little off-putting, but even that is not because there’s anything inherently _bad_ about it. I’m just–do you want to hear this story?” Adrien paused, and Marinette nodded. “When I was a kid, my parents spent most of their time at the studio, you know, so that meant I would spend a lot of time at the studio. Which was fine, I liked watching them rehearse, but the instructors would find me annoying what with my, ah, _youthful enthusiasm_ and getting underfoot. They sent me down to costuming to get me out of the way, but the workroom is hardly a safe place for a three-year-old, so Tikki would send me off to Plagg. Better to hit my head on a pointe shoe than step on a sewing needle, I guess. I spent a lot of time with Plagg, and you know how he likes to eat camembert–the really pungent kind? The kind that makes the whole shoe room smell like cheese? That’s the room I spent all my time in, so I became a little traumatized by the smell of camembert. I’ve probably also subconsciously linked it to the first time I saw a _corps de ballet_ dancer’s feet. Well, she kept the bandages on, but you understand.” Marinette gave him a consoling pat, and he shrugged. “That’s when I learned ballet isn’t as glamorous as it seems. I guess it all worked out though.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, pouring rosé and sneaking cubes of cheese while they waited for Nino and Alya.

“Maybe we should go get them,” suggested Adrien.

“That is maybe a not-so-good idea. Are you sure you want to walk in on…” Marinette let her voice trail off and flushed, and Adrien stared blankly for a moment. Then realization hit and his face turned bright pink.

“No, you’re right, we can absolutely wait for them to finish!” Adrien squeaked.

“We should make some real food. They’ll be hungry when they’re done,” Marinette said, standing and heading back to the kitchen. “I’m thinking something light, something Italian.”

“Caprese sandwiches?”

“Okay, confession time, I don’t actually know what that means,” Marinette admitted.

“It’s pretty simple, I can teach you. Basically, mozzarella, tomato, and basil on some kind of bread. It’s good for the heat,” said Adrien, peering inside the pantry, then the refrigerator. He pulled out a block of mozzarella and two tomatoes. “Slice the cheese, 1cm thick. I’ll work on the tomatoes and basil.”

“Yes sir!” Marinette saluted playfully, and rummaged around Alya’s cabinets for a knife. Adrien divided a baguette into fourths, then piled on the mozzarella and tomato slices generously. He topped each sandwich with a handful of basil, then stuck a toothpick through all the layers. With a flourish, he stacked the sandwiches on a plate.

“And, _voila_. _Panini con mozzarella, pomodoro, e basilico, come vuoi_ ,” Adrien said.

“When did you learn Italian?”

“My mom went to school in Italy, so she taught me some things. That’s also how I know all these recipes,” he explained. “I can’t make French food for the life of me though. Like, quiche completely goes over my head.”

Marinette smiled, and took a sandwich. “Well you’re in luck. I make a killer quiche, if I do say so myself.” Adrien’s eyes widened, and Marinette continued. “My parents have a bakery, remember? I too have learned some things from my mom.” Adrien made a face, as if he was barely holding himself back.

“Do you want the recipe?” Marinette asked, and he nodded vigorously. Marinette described kneading a pastry shell, whisking eggs, and her favorite toppings while they munched on the sandwiches. Just as she was getting to putting the quiche in the oven, Alya slipped out of her room.

“Fam, we’re ready to wine and dine. Please tell me there is food waiting to be inserted into our mouths,” Alya said, sliding into the seat next to Marinette. Nino emerged from her room, his eyes shining, and sat down next to Adrien without a word.

“We made sandwiches. Alya, your kitchen is shockingly well-stocked,” Adrien said.

“I take pride in being prepared for any circumstances that may arise, including the occasional surprise dinner party,” she said, taking a big bite out of the sandwich Marinette passed her. “Delightful as always, you two.”

Marinette and Adrien thanked her, and Nino followed her lead in inhaling their sandwiches. The cheese disappeared next. Soon enough, dishes were dumped in the sink and glasses refilled.

“Now,” Alya said, setting her glass aside and placing both hands forcefully on the table, “The true highlight of the night: let’s play a little game.” Marinette and Adrien glanced at each other, wondering what Alya had planned. “Oh, don’t give me _that_. It’s just truth or dare. I’ll even make it easy for you two and go first. Hit me with your best shot.” Despite her cheerful tone, the glint in her eye was terrifying, so they agreed hesitantly.

“Truth or dare?” Adrien asked.

“Dare.”

Marinette glanced around the room, looking for inspiration. Her eyes fell on the half-full bottle of wine, and she grinned. “I dare you to gargle rosé and sing a song. Don’t stop until we guess what the song is.”

Alya mirrored Marinette’s grin, her hand reaching for her glass. She took a big swig and tilted her head back. Lips tugging at a smile, hands gesturing wildly, she looked like a fish flopping on the pier. She gargled incoherently, and Marinette and Adrien exchanged questioning looks again. She completed her performance and looked expectantly at her friends.

“Uh, can we get the chorus again?” asked Adrien. Alya rolled her eyes, but obliged. This time, with greater theatricality, she clutched her chest and flung her arms apart, her hands shaking in time with the gargled vibrato. She palmed the air to emphasize the high notes and wiggled her fingers at the end of each phrase. Then her arms came down and rested across her chest, her hands on her shoulders. If not for the gargling, it could have been a moving performance. As it was, her friends could hardly keep from laughing. Alya gave them some serious stinkeye, but couldn’t keep her mouth closed and choked on the rosé.

Marinette thumped her on the back as she hacked and coughed. Defeated, she let her forehead rest against the dining table. “That’s it, that’s all I got. Any guesses?”

“Your performance was a great Adele, but which song, I couldn’t tell,” said Nino. Alya rolled her head across the table to look at him, her face expressionless.

“Rolling in the Deep?” guessed Adrien.

“The only rolling I’m doing is in my grave,” she replied.

“Someone Like You?” guessed Marinette. Alya didn’t even reply, just gave her a cold stare.

“Hello?” guessed Nino.

“Bingo, we have a winner!” Alya said, pulling herself off the table. She wiped her face with a napkin, then wiped down her glasses. “That was, admittedly, worse than I had expected. However! I’m willing to be the bigger man in this situation and put the suffering you caused behind me. In return,” she let her voice drop to a whisper, leaning forward in her chair and steepling her hands, “I choose the next victim.”

Marinette reclined against the back of her seat, tossing her arm across the top rail and crossing her legs. She was only a precariously balanced cigarette away from James Dean cool. “I’m ready.”

“Uh-uh, that’s where you’re wrong, babe. Don’t let all my affection get to your head. It’s Adrien’s turn,” Alya said, turning to face the boy in question with a devilish grin. Adrien’s eyes went wide. He set his glass on the table and straightened his posture.

“Don’t worry, I’m not as cruel as Marinette. If you’re uncomfortable with the way things are going, I’ll stop,” said Alya. Adrien nodded, but his spine remained ramrod straight. Alya leaned in, her voice a touch above a whisper. “Truth or dare?”

Adrien hesitated, scanning Alya’s expression for any signal of which would be the better–no, safer–choice. Her hazel eyes seemed lit from within, smoldering with inscrutable intensity. Alya lived for this; Adrien crumpled from the sheer force of her will.

“Truth,” he said, but it felt like surender falling from his lips. Alya grinned and took a delicate sip of rosé, pretending to think of a good question. She tapped on her chin and tilted her head.

“I’ll be direct, then. Do you like Marinette’s perfume?” Marinette flushed, but Adrien flushed more.

“I–I don’t know. I wouldn’t know. I, uh, haven’t smelled her in close proximity with that kind of intent.” His blush spread with each word, reaching from the tips of his ears to his neck.

“Well, find out, lover-boy!” Alya said, nudging Marinette’s arm. She extended her hand tentatively, the blue-green of her veins highlighted by the red of her sleeve. Her arm shook, so she let her elbow drop onto the table. Adrien cupped her hand in his own, and gently pulled her elbow towards him with the other. He lifted her wrist to his nose, as if he meant to kiss her palm. Marinette stared, enraptured, as his eyes fluttered and his lips brushed her hand. That simple, accidental motion electrified her, and she jolted. His green, green eyes flicked up at her, staring into her eyes as he inhaled the scent of her perfume. She smelled like the gardens of Versailles–light florals underscored by the fresh scent of sweet summer fruits. She smelled like the first warm sunbeam on your skin in early spring, like strolling along the Seine in the arms of a lover, like a summer spent on the beaches of Nice, like love and euphoria itself.

“It’s good,” Adrien said, and pulled away. “Lovely and floral.”

“Damn right she smells good,” Alya muttered. She crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. Marinette couldn’t help but giggle at that. A smile tugged at Adrien’s lips. Nino cracked up, and set off everyone else’s laughter. Soon all four were bent over, gasping for air as they banged their fists on the table. The bottle of wine swayed precariously, and the candles flickered, but the wine stayed in its bottle and the flames stayed lit.

Adrien was the first to sober up. He watched as his friends breathing calmed and their shoulders stopped shaking. He watched as Marinette, still grinning, straightened her dress. He watched as Alya’s fist uncurled, as she laid her palm flat upon the table. He watched as Nino gasped for breath and covered his mouth, embarrassed to be the last one still laughing at nothing at all. And so their banter went on, back and forth, teasing each other the way only best friends do. They hardly noticed as the air outside cooled, as the streetlights came on and the stars came out.

“I dare you to yell out to the whole of Paris how you really feel about Alya,” said Adrien. He reclined against the chair, stretching his legs out under the table and crossing his arms. Nino smiled, and went to the balcony.

“Oh, hey guys, have you noticed how late it’s gotten?” he said, turning back to face his friends.

“Are you chickening out?” asked Marinette, suddenly throwing her elbows, and entire body weight, onto the table. Nino shook his head.

“No, I’ll do it in a second. I’m just saying that it might be time to start heading home.”

Alya cut in. “One last question, after this,” she said, giving him a pointed look. Nino raised his eyebrows, then nodded knowingly.

“Of course,” he said. Nino turned back to the balcony, stepped on the iron railing, and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Alya Césaire is my sun, my moon, the love of my life!” He turned around with a grin, then continued, “but she already knows that.” Alya blew him a kiss and winked. Nino flopped back into his chair, put his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders, and said, “Next up, Adrien Agreste.”

Alya struck immediately. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.” Adrien chose truth every time, but he saw the scheming in Alya’s eyes and switch to dare out of fear. Alya, however, was prepared.

“I dare you to confess to your crush.”

Adrien froze, and Marinette’s breath caught in her throat. They heard their hearts beat in tandem; one, two, three. Then, Adrien laughed.

“Not possible, sorry. My crush is Ladybug.”

The room is silent for a moment, then Alya whispers, “What do you mean?”

“Ladybug is my crush, and since I don’t see–I mean, since she isn’t here, I couldn’t confess to her.”

Alya waved him off, and tried again. “Is this a game to you? Do you just go around breaking hearts for fun?”

“What?”

“Don’t give me that. What was pasta on the roof?”

“I thought we were just friends,” Adrien said. He turned to look at Marinette, but she had tucked her head in her knees, shutting out the outside world.

“Do you bare your emotional core to your _friends_?” Alya hissed, a finger at Adrien’s chest and flames shooting from her eyes. Nino grabbed Adrien’s arm and kept Alya’s bared teeth at bay with his free hand.

“Alya, I’ll talk to him. Take care of Marinette. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, then dragged Adrien away. As the door shut, Adrien saw Alya handing Marinette a stiff drink in a martini glass and wrapping her arms around her.

“Bro, you don’t even _know_ Ladybug,” said Nino, ever the voice of reason.

“But I do. She’s brave, and strong, and determined, and a beautiful dancer.” Adrien thought of the way she smiled at him when they danced the _pas de deux_ , the way she flicked her wrists when she caught the akuma, the way she lept into his arms in their victory lap.

“You’ve seen her dance, what, fifteen times? Twenty? How can you know someone from the character they play onstage?” Nino stopped in the stairwell, gripping Adrien’s shoulders with both hands. “Do you even know her name?”

“I don’t need to. I know her for who she is, and I know that I love her.”

Nino was quiet for a moment, then let his hands drop from Adrien’s shoulders. He turned around and continued down the stairs. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Don’t forget about the ones you’ve hurt along the way.” With that, Nino disappeared into the night.

“God, I hope so too,” he whispered into the emptiness, then followed Nino out the door. The spring air had turned cold and a wind had picked up while they were inside, so he pulled his jacket tighter around himself. At the mouth of the metro, he glanced back up to see a single window with the lights still on. Through the curtain, he could just make out the shape of Alya, pacing back and forth, waving her arms. Suddenly, she stopped and turned to look out her window. Adrien turned and scurried into the metro station before she caught sight of him. Adrien was alone in the darkness of the tunnel, and lonelier than ever before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladybug’s solo adapted from Steven McRae’s Czárdás: https://youtu.be/EQvtB-4Pv-U
> 
> Marinette’s perfume is Eau de Parfum by Chloe. The irony is not lost.


	3. Chapter 3

Ladybug's uneasiness rolled off of her in waves. From the moment she stepped into the studio, mask slightly off-kilter, Adrien sensed something was wrong. He put the needle on the record as usual, then padded over to where she was tying her pointe shoes.

“Something the matter, my Lady?” he asked, plopping onto the ground across from her. She grunted, giving her ribbons a final tug and moved onto the other shoe without further comment.

“C’mon, I don’t bite,” he nudged, rolling onto his stomach and peering up at her through his eyelashes. “See, I’m a totally harmless kitten.” Ladybug smiled, letting her legs stretch out before her so she could stretch her ankles. Adrien draped his arms over her thighs and laid his head on his biceps. His upper body rose and fell with the gentle undulations of her muscles working as she rolled her ankles, working out the kinks in her joints. The record across the room died down as the song ended, and Ladybug gently pushed his head off her lap.

“I’m stretching my legs now,” she said. He rocked back on his heels and watched her slide into a split. He copied her movements, pushing against her feet with his own. She reached for his hands, and pulled him forwards as she leaned back. Adrien felt the familiar burn in his inner thighs, but it wasn’t so bad with Ladybug across from him. She motioned for him to switch, so he let his torso fall back as Ladybug let the momentum carry her forward. Adrien wanted to stay like that forever, tight hip flexors be damned. But alas, the gentle throbbing grew into a persistent nagging, and he motioned for Ladybug to move onto the next stretch. The stretched every conceivable muscle in their bodies, arching and twisting and grunting as they went. When he heard the distinctive sound of hard shoes on the stairs, Adrien pulled the needle off the record player and gave his hands a final flex.

“We have a lot of work tonight, so let’s get started immediately,” said Mr. Agreste as he crossed the threshold. Nathalie and Nathanael followed in sullen silence, but had the courtesy to nod to the dancers as they took their regular places at the front of the studio and at the piano, respectively. “From the beginning of the last act. I’ll stop you when necessary,” said Mr. Agreste. The dancers nodded and took their places.

The ballet was split into three acts, as was traditional. In the first act, the villain Papillon infiltrates the ballet company, seizing control of the _corps de ballet_ by tainted butterflies–akuma–that absorb into the dancers’ tutus. Papillon builds jealousy in the _corps_ , and in a frenzy of black tulle and lace, they mob the lead dancers. The orchestra imitates a blood-curling scream as the curtain falls. The second act opens with the induction of two new dancers to the company as the _corps_ looks on haughtily. With the lead dancers gone and the jealousy still festering, the company decided to hire two new dancers to play the leads in the ballet. Ladybug and Chat Noir stand out from the moment they step onstage. Ladybug is outfitted in a spotted red tutu, true to her namesake. Chat Noir’s black tights and black jacket would fit in with the _corps_ if not for the glinting golden embroidery accentuating the breadth of his chest. _Cheesy_ , the  _corps_ seems to whisper, but they cut themselves off when they see them dance. Ladybug and Chat Noir dance the _pas de deux_ like lovers, like they delight in every spin, every leap, every step as long as they are together. Their joy is contagious and awakens the passion that brought the dancers in the _corps_ to the company in the first place. The show within a show goes on, and the curtain falls on resounding applause. In act three, Papillon feels his grip on the _corps_ weaken, and in his panicked fury, corners Ladybug and Chat Noir with the mob. They surround Ladybug and Chat Noir as they surrounded the previous lead dancers. Not to be cowed, Ladybug purifies the akuma of each dancer. Freed of the grip of evil, they flit away in horror until only the two heroes remain, face to face with Papillon. The pull of his magic is strong, but no stronger than the love emanating from Ladybug and Chat Noir. With one last butterfly to purify, time slows as Ladybug’s magic works. She strips Papillon of the evil that envelops him. Ladybug and Chat Noir celebrate with a final dance as the now-purified _corps de ballet_ looks on. The curtain falls for the third time on the duo wrapped in an embrace, the tension between them palpable but unfulfilled, leaving the audience to draw its own conclusions.

In the third act, Ladybug’s focus was meant to be sharp as a blade, but her eyes flicked and her feet wobbled as she danced. Adrien picked up on the way her arms sagged as she spun and the way she carelessly flung her limbs around the studio. She pirouetted into his arms, and he whispered into her ear.

“Focus, my Lady.”

She fixed her eyes on his as she spun in his hands, and pasted a smile on her face as she struck an arabesque. He felt her breath on his face, but she let her eyes do the talking. _We’re not having this conversation_ , her eyes said, _not right now_. They danced in silence.

After rehearsal ended, after the sound of Mr. Agreste and Nathalie’s footsteps faded away, Adrien broached the subject again.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” He looked at her with his striking green eyes, and hoped his voice didn’t waver the way his heart did. She noticed how the genuine concern in his voice accentuated how _feline_ his eyes looked in the half-light, and she caved.

“I’m worried for a friend is all,” she said, “I’m afraid he doesn’t know what he’s getting into, that he’s in love with a stranger.” She slammed her shoes into her bag with more force than strictly necessary. Adrien was struck by how familiar the words sounded.

“I’m sure he knows where his heart lies,” he said.

“How can you be so sure?” she asked.

Adrien shrugged. “Intuition,” he offered with partial guilt befitting a partial truth. Ladybug sighed, claiming she needed a beverage of some kind. In her home. Alone. Adrien knew when to take a hint and walked her to the mouth of the metro station.

Marinette removed her mask on the train platform after she was sure Chat Noir was gone. Not that she didn’t appreciate his concern, but she didn’t have the mental capacity to focus on rehearsal, much less to banter with him. The train was empty, but that didn’t stop it from smelling like sweaty feet and cigarettes.

When she got home, she dumped her bag on the ground and kicked off her shoes. The floor was cold under her bare feet as she padded to the kitchen to make a mug of instant hot chocolate in the microwave. The low hum filled her ears as she shucked her remaining clothes. Her fridge was more chocolate than spinach, and Alya berated her for it every time she came over. Not that she had to; Marinette knew she ate like shit. Her livelihood depended upon the continued function of her body, so she knew she should eat a balanced diet, but she couldn’t stick to any kind of diet plan for an extended period. She liked to claim that her sweet tooth was a side effect of growing up in a bakery, but not even she believed her own words.

She crawled into her bed with the steaming mug in her hand. Marinette curled up in her sheets–white, because she lives on the edge–and sank into her pillows. This was her true happy place, and a contented sigh escaped her lips accordingly. The sounds of the city were muffled outside her window, she finally felt truly alone with her thoughts. She thought about how that game of truth or dare was no revelation because everyone in the company who didn’t want to be Ladybug wanted to be with Ladybug. It happened to every lead in every production; something Alya had made very clear to Marinette after years of gushing over every Manon, every Odette, every Giselle, every Don Quixote, and now Ladybug.

But, she thought as she buried herself in her down comforter, _nothing quite like your long-time crush declaring his devotion to what is essentially a fictional character_. Marinette finished her hot chocolate and begrudgingly rolled across her bed to brush her calcified dental growths. Her feet hit the cold tile floor in her bathroom and she instantly regretted not wearing slippers. She squatted on the rim of the toilet just to get her feet off the floor, watching herself brush her teeth in the mirror. She examined her tired eyes, the pimples popping up on her chin, and the ashen shade her skin was taking on. Internally, she sighed. Late night rehearsals and eight-show weeks were taking their toll on her face. _Exhaustion isn’t a good look_ , she thought as she rinsed. She was glad the season was almost over; with only one week to go until closing night, things were winding down. Not that there was ever a sense of _calm_ at the Palais. Tikki was already airing out the costumes for the next production–a white Romantic-length tutu and a veil to match for each dancer in the company. Mr. Agreste liked to intersperse his original ballets with the more traditional ones in the company’s repertoire. After the energy of _Ladybug_ , the Marinette was more than ready for the reprieve of _Giselle_.

She crawled back into bed and fell asleep the instant her head hit the pillow.

-~-~-~-

It was the last performance of the season. The orchestra’s every note rang of finality, of the capital-E End. Marinette purified the  _corps de ballet_ one last time. With Chat Noir by her side, she faced down Papillion one last time. She felt strong, whole and content, as she pirouetted into Chat’s waiting arms. With his hands on her waist, she spun around and around. She could feel his blood pumping in his palms through the boning of her bodice. She could feel his hot breath on her neck, and her face flushed under her mask. With two rotations left to go, Chat whispered in her ear.

“I think I love you,” he said, as if to himself, but Marinette was close enough for her eyelashes to brush the tip of his nose. Make no mistake, she heard him loud and clear. _Oh, fuck_ , she thought. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ , she thought as she felt her heart stop for a moment, then start again but like her left ventricle had been torn out. Like a stampede of elephants had run over her chest. Enormous, fully grown African elephants. The really big ones, with tusks that could impale five or six men at once. _I’m so fucked_.

She came out of her spins and almost, _almost_ fell off her toes as Chat knelt before her. Mr. Agreste’s shrieking could be heard in Nice, but she couldn’t be bothered to care. She pasted a smile on her face and struck the now-iconic arabesque, then prayed for gravity to accelerate so the curtains could fall faster, or so that she’d be sucked into the Earth’s molten core and be absolved of her mundane troubles.

The moment the velvet made contact with the stage floor, she ran into the wings. Not that she could disappear; the _corps de ballet_ crowded around the edge of the stage to watch the finale. Marinette elbowed her way through the very girls she had so lovingly purified eight times a week for the past three months, apologies falling from her lips like water from a spring. Chat Noir was close on her heels. The _corps_ caught on that the planets aligned and the ballet had begun to bleed into reality; the show was continuing, regardless of who was watching. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and Marinette broke into a sprint, pointe shoes be damned. She made a beeline for her dressing room, slammed the door, and tore off her mask. She heard Chat Noir ram into the door, then quiet. She dropped her mask on the floor when looking at the dots became unbearable.

“You don’t know the real me,” Marinette whispered. She heard Chat place both palms flat against the door, the hardened tips of his gloves clicking against the wood.

“Yes I do. I know you’re strong and determined. I know that you’re brave, and you’re smart, and that I love you,” he said. His voice was soft, muffled by the barrier between them, but Marinette already knew what he would say before the words even left his mouth.

“That’s Ladybug, not Marinette,” she retorted before realizing her mistake. Her heart stopped, again. Chat Noir’s heart stopped. The accumulating crowd fell silent, and Marinette could hear the air lodge itself in her throat.

Chat Noir realized then that he was still wearing his mask. He pried it off his face and let it fall to the ground with a dull finality. Then he pressed his entire body to the door, as if trying to flatten himself against it enough to pass through. He wanted to hold her hand, to hold her close and whisper reassurances into her hair. He wanted so much that was not his to take. He tried using his words instead.

“Marinette,” he said, pausing for a deep breath, “Marinette, I love you. Ladybug’s strength is your strength, her grace is your grace. You are Ladybug, and I love you with the mask or without.” He heard gentle sobs from the other side, so he knelt and willed his partner to understand.

“I can’t,” she choked out, finally, “I love someone else.” Adrien’s heart broke instantaneously.

“I’m sorry, then,” he said, and turned to reach for his duffle bag, then the exit. Alya, timing impeccable as always, pushed her way to the front of the crowd at that moment. She caught a glimpse of Adrien’s retreating face, the Chat Noir mask on the ground outside Marinette’s dressing room, and proceeded to slam her entire body weight against the door.

“Listen to me, Marinette. If you don’t come out here right this instant, you _will_ regret it for the rest of your life. This is not a threat. This is a statement of pure fact,” Alya said. Marinette flung the door open. Alya pointed at the mask at their feet, and the blond head slipping through the side door, and watched as Marinette’s eyes widened in horror.

“Go,” Alya prompted, and Marinette took off. Through the power of will alone, she forced her legs to carry her down the hall and out the door. Her legs burned; she was pushing her body too hard too soon after the show, but she didn’t care. Her feet matched pace with her rabbit heart. She burst out of the Palais in the flurry of red tulle and black lace, elbowing her way through the incessant crowd of tourists. She caught Adrien by the shoulder just before he disappeared into the mouth of the metro station.

“Adrien. I……you…are you Chat Noir?” Her voice trembled, but in typical Ladybug style, her grip on his shoulder was firm. Adrien nodded, once. Marinette felt lightheaded, as if gravity suddenly failed and all the oxygen on the planet was sucked into the void of space. She put her other hand on the railing of the stairs leading to the station and let her body slide to the ground.

“I just…need a moment,” she said.

“Take as long as you need,” he replied, letting her hand on his shoulder guide him down next to her. She took a deep, shaky breath, then spoke without looking at him.

“I’ve been living this double life–Marinette by day, Ladybug by night–and I’ve been tearing myself in two trying to reconcile them. Because, you see, I’ve realized that I’ve fallen in love with these two boys–these two men. But if Chat Noir is Adrien Agreste, then the problem has been resolved, and topped off with a cherry to boot.” She paused, and turned to look at him. “The other man I said I was in love with, I meant Adrien. I meant you.” She turned back around, her ears burning at her own audacity. Adrien did not reply, not because he did not want to, but because he was not able to. His heart was lodged in his throat, the sweetness of her words countering the bitterness lingering on his tongue.

They watched people pass through the station. They watched as if they were ghosts on another plane of existence, not touching anything or anyone. They watched as the crush of people returning home after a long day of work slowed to a trickle. They sat in silence and felt their hearts beat in tandem. Hard and fast, the pounding in their ears threatened to drown out the cacophony of city noises. As the streetlights switch on and the sun sinks below the skyline, Marinette found her peace. A weight was gradually lifted from her shoulders, and breathing became easier. They reconciled themselves to reality, to who they really were, rather than who they wish they could be.

“What are we?” Marinette finally asked, hesitation thick in her voice.

“What do you want to be?” asked Adrien.

“I don’t know,” said Marinette.

“We can figure it out,” said Adrien. “We can figure it out together,” he added, then carefully placed his hand on hers. His hand was shaking, so he looked into her blue, blue eyes and kicked himself for not realizing she was Ladybug before. He saw her blush and avert her eyes. She looked at everything but him, her eyes flicking from the streetlamps to the Palais to the passerby on the street. Eventually she ran out of things to look at, and can’t help but meet his gaze once more. They leaned closer, inadvertently, and the air between them heated like melting magnets. The ice was not so much broken as sublimed, superheated straight past the liquid phase. Marinette fell into his shoulder and threw her arms around his neck.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into his shirt. Her voice is muffled, but he can feel her lips move against the soft cotton.

“Don’t be,” he replies, equally as soft. He gently wraps his arms around her torso, pulling her close. Ladybug and Chat Noir never danced like this, so close and so intimate. Ladybug and Chat Noir did not have world-changing revelations on the steps of the metro station. Ladybug and Chat Noir were the crime-fighting saviors of Paris, not two lost kids trying to make a name for themselves in the world. Or maybe, they were. Beneath the masks, Ladybug and Chat Noir were just two dancers. They are Ladybug and Adrien Agreste. They are Marinette and Chat Noir. They are Marinette and Adrien. The distinctions were meaningless; all the lines had blurred into a nebulous mess.

“It’s getting dark,” Adrien noted, but Marinette did not move. He rested his chin on her head and inhaled the scent of her shampoo. She smelled like sweat, like ballet shoes, like resin and the dusty hallways of the Palais. She smelled like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not ever have i written anything that does not include a hot chocolate scene, so i gotta stay true to my brand. thanks for reading! :)


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